


Ours Is The Darkest Path

by ashtraythief



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Drinking, Codependency, Demon Dean Winchester, Don't copy to another site, First Time, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 17:34:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18503776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashtraythief/pseuds/ashtraythief
Summary: After Sam and Dean beat everything else, Hell has one more surprise for them. And when only the dark path is left, they take it together.





	Ours Is The Darkest Path

**Author's Note:**

  * For [obstinatrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/gifts).



> Written for Obstinatrix's prompts for Springfling. This is my first attempt at Wincest in years, so... *bites nails*
> 
> Many, many thanks to keep_waking_up for brainstorming and handholding and to ilikaicalie and masja_17 for being the most amazing betas.

 

 

Of course, hell had one more surprise for them.

After Lilith, after Lucifer, after Crowley, after the Knights and the Princes, after hell’s never-ending parade of evil spawn, there was one more.

Lilith might have been Lucifer’s first, but the Witch of Endor was Lilith’s first. She’d long since become a demon herself, a demon who held all the dark secrets of witchcraft.

“I was the one who gave that crazy nun the visions to write it,” she said about the Book of the Damned, right before she killed Rowena. Before she killed everyone.

Now, Sam and Dean are the last ones left. And there’s nothing they can do. No spell, no weapon. Nothing. Except—

“No.” Dean crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Sam, you’re not doing it.”

“Yeah, well, neither are you,” Sam shoots back.

“The First Blade is the only weapon that can kill that witch. And with the book, we can reactivate it,” Dean says with forced calm.

“We don’t even know if that would work.” Sam drags a hand through his hair. “Look, I know the last time I used my powers it went badly, but this time it’ll be different.”

Dean throws his hands up. “How? How, Sam?”

“I’ll have you.”

Dean crumbles. But just when Sam thinks he’s won, Dean straightens up and shakes his head. “It’s too risky. You’re not doing it alone.”

“Dean—”

“No.” Dean’s voice is even. “Either we both do it, or we don’t do it at all.”

“And if we win, what then?” Sam asks quietly. “The Mark will turn you again.”

Dean clenches his jaw. “There’s always a price to pay.”

Sam looks at the Book of the Damned. “Yeah, maybe.”

 

 

 

The book truly has a spell for everything. Dean’s not happy about a soul-binding ritual, says it’ll bite them in the ass one way or another, but it’s Sam’s condition for letting Dean take the Mark again.

Sam researched the ritual from every possible angle, scoured every possible source. And he’s aware that it might not work. Dean’s aware too, but not the way Sam is. Dean read the ritual, but after going through half the information Sam had gathered, he’d given up, trusted Sam and his research. So Dean doesn’t know about that one particular text, the one in Ancient Sumerian that says only a person willing to give their whole heart can bind a soul into this world. That is Sam’s alone, the same as the thing buried deep inside of him, under all the guilt and the pain, under hell and demon blood. He’s kept it under wraps, always. Had run away to Stanford when it became too much, when for every inch his gangly teenage body grew, the burning feeling in his chest grew tenfold. Had learned to live with it far away from Dean and kept it buried when they were back together on the road. Had let it drive him to save Dean and the world, which were one and the same when he’d let himself fall into the cage. Lucifer was the only one to drag it out of him, down there in the cage, but Sam buried that too. But now, for once, this sick, twisted thing inside of him will be good for something.

The Mark is not getting his brother.

 

 

 

“Ready?”

“Yeah.” Dean’s voice is clipped.

And Sam hears it, clear as a bell. It doesn’t matter to Dean whether this works or not. He’s made his decision. He’ll take the Mark the moment Sam drinks demon blood again.

Sam clenches his jaw.

“Sam.” Dean’s voice is unwavering, absolute.

“Yeah, okay.” Even to Sam’s ears it sounds like _fuck you_ , but Dean lets it slide.

They grip each other’s left hands standing in the middle of the most complicated pentagram Sam has ever drawn. It’s old magic, three different languages melded together into one ritual.

“Well,” Dean says with his usually gruff, devil-may-care attitude, “here goes nothing.”

Sam nods once, jerky.

He raises the dagger, old copper with almost faded symbols along the blade, and cuts their arms. Their blood drips into the goblet on the floor and they start to speak. Slowly, in perfect sync, they recite the words that will bind them together forever, that will take the strength of their bond to bind Dean’s soul to Sam’s heart, to Sam’s humanity, no matter where the blade wants to take Dean.

If it works.

As they speak, wind rises. It howls through the bunker’s corridors, rattling furniture and whirling up the dust of decades. It’s cold, like a Midwest winter storm. Sam shivers, sees the goosebumps pebble on Dean’s arms. The cold becomes almost unbearable, tiny pinpricks all over his body. Sam focuses on Dean, anchors himself in Dean’s unwavering gaze.

Sam can’t hear their voices over the roaring anymore. The wind threatens to topple him, his legs shake, and it’s impossible to remember the words, the cold permeating his entire body. The wind turns, blows his hair into his face and through the strands and his watering eyes he sees Dean’s almost eyeroll, fondness and annoyance in the middle of the storm. A burst of warmth spreads through Sam and his voice strengthens. With one short, harsh syllable, they finish.

The wind falls. Silence. Nothing has changed.

Dean looks at their arms, their hands, intertwined and unchanged.

“Did it work?” Dean’s voice is rough but steady.

Sam shakes the hair out of his face. “I don’t know. I mean, this should have…”

He trails off. The blood—their blood—is roiling in the goblet.

“Okay, freaky,” Dean says.

Strands of blood shoot up, like beanstalks growing towards their arms. For a moment, they hover in the air, then they snap like whips, wrapping hearth-fire hot around their wrists.

Sam screams and his knees give out. He falls into Dean as torrid heat encircles his entire arm, the blood vines burning into his skin. Dean is on the ground with him, hot breath against Sam’s ear, hand clutching Sam’s shoulder, to steady or to hold on or maybe both.

Their left arms are bound together by their own blood until it slowly sinks in, soaked up by their skin like ink into parchment. It only leaves dark winding lines behind, echoes of the pain flitting over Sam's entire arm, across his shoulder and the left side of his chest.

“I’ll say it again,” Dean huffs out. “Freaky.”

Sam nods, draws back and sits down. He lets go of Dean. His skin cools rapidly. It leaves him off-kilter and wanting. He shakes his head, tries to clear his mind.

“Do you feel different?”

Dean examines the new marks, lines in a red so dark it’s almost black. He looks up at Sam. “Not really. You?”

Sam breathes. He wants to feel something, anything, in his chest, in his mind, but there’s nothing new. Just the familiar pain and longing. The bond marks feel like old scar tissue now, numb and smooth. “No.”

Dean snorts and stands. He gives Sam a hand and pulls him up. “This doesn’t change anything.”

“Dean—”

“No. I'm not letting you do this alone.” Dean smiles, sudden and brittle. “And hey, maybe it did work, we just don’t know.”

Dean’s a crappy liar.

 

 

 

It’s ugly. Sam’s addiction comes back with the first drop of blood, and Dean’s wrapped up in bloodied rage as soon as the Mark is back on his arm and the blade back in his hand.

They set their trap for the witch, both itching for the fight. They don’t talk about the consequences. Before the fight, in the last calm before the storm, Dean gives him a bullshit smile. “It’ll be okay, Sammy.”

 

 

 

If Sam still needed proof that the ritual didn’t work, he has it now.

Dean had been right, of course; it took both of them. Even with all the demon blood Sam managed to gulp down, he couldn’t kill her. She was too old, her spells and amulets too powerful. Her eyes gleamed an eerie grey when she worked her magic. It took all of Sam’s power just to hold her down, blood dripping from his nose and his head threatening to explode until Dean finally managed to plunge the First Blade into her throat. The witch died in an explosion of grey smoke, the last of her tendrils curling around the blade, turning it and shoving it into Dean's chest.

And now Dean is dead, lying on his bed in the bunker. Sam couldn’t let go of the hope that the binding marks would finally work. But nothing happened. He’s been going through the ritual over and over, trying to find what he’d missed, but there’s nothing. It just didn't work.

Sam sits in the library, surrounded by a mess of books and notes. He can’t give up yet. Won’t. He’ll find something. They always do. He just has to go through the stack of books he hadn’t consulted before, just has to compare his notes one more time, retranslate the Ancient Sumerian text again. But he’s tired, his whole body hurts, and deep inside he can feel the hunger building again. If Dean were alive, he’d tie Sam down, force him through the detox. Sam doesn’t think he can do it alone. Doesn’t know if he wants to.

He leans back in the chair, closes his eyes. The growing hunger feels easier to bear that way. When he opens his eyes again, the hunger’s quiet. It’s still there, but it’s not clawing at his insides. He feels—calm. And not alone.

Sam’s head jerks up. Dean is standing in the doorway.

“Dean.” Sam’s out of the chair and halfway over to Dean before he stops, rooted to the spot.

Dean’s eyes are pitch black.

Bile rises in Sam’s throat and he tries to tell himself that this is good. Demon Dean is better than dead Dean. Sam cured him before, he can do it again. But last time Sam wasn’t hopped up on demon blood, and last time Sam’s eyes didn’t zero in on Dean’s throat where he knows his brother’s pulse is strong.

Dean blinks—once, twice—then his eyes are back to green. He cracks his neck, rolls his shoulders. Flexes his hands.

“Now what, Sammy?”

Sam swallows. “Do you want to kill me?”

Dean's eyes trail down Sam's neck and rest where his pulse is hammering away. Dean licks his lips and grins. “No.”

Torture then. Almost absently, Sam wonders if Dean knows. If he’s always known. If he’ll use that knowledge to torture him now.

Slowly, Sam edges backward. There’s a knife on the table. He’s weak, but with Dean’s blood—he can’t think about it, can’t picture it, but he needs to overpower Dean to cure him.

“Aww, Sammy. Aren’t you happy to see me?”

“I will be. As soon as you’re human again.”

Dean shakes his head and raises his arm. The binding mark is glowing faintly, like freshly-spilled venous blood. “Not when I can finally have what I want.”

Sam’s at the table, trying subtly to find the knife. “And what’s that?”

“You.”

“Dead?”

Dean grins, dark and filthy. “Didn’t you listen, Sammy? I don’t want you dead. I want you. Alive.”

Sam’s heart twists and jumps. “You’re lying.”

Dean keeps advancing slowly, like a hunter stalking his deathly wounded prey. “Look into my eyes, Sammy. Look into my pretty green eyes. I’m not lying. I've always wanted you. And now all the guilt and the shame, it’s finally gone.”

Sam snorts. “Last time you were a demon, you were singing a different tune.”

Almost curiously, Dean examines the mark. “When you’re a demon, you lose what makes you human. This time, I didn’t. Seems your little spell worked, Sammy.”

Sam finally finds the knife. His heart is hammering, his whole body feels warm, and the mark on his arm is blazing. Its heat spreads through Sam’s body with every step Dean takes.

“No,” Sam manages to croak out. “You never—”

Dean smiles. He’s standing right in front of Sam, pinning him in place with just the look in his eyes.

“Always. The one person I couldn’t have. And why? Because I had to protect you? Because society said so? Because it’s _wrong_? Fuck that.” As sudden as it grew, Dean’s anger ebbs. His expression turns thoughtful. “I could never shake the feeling you wanted it too. Told myself I was delusional. But I think I was right about it after all.” Dean raises his arm again. “Certainly feels like I was right.”

Sam shakes his head. He can’t believe it. But the marks are singing, he can feel it too. He can feel Dean. Coiling heat, twisting and turning just outside of his reach. It feels blue-fire hot, bright light surrounded by billowing demon-black darkness. It feels real. True.

But it’s not Dean. It’s a demon.

Except that Dean cocks his head, eyes searching Sam’s, and Sam only sees his brother. Feels his brother. Just a little rougher—darker—around the edges, his soul still Dean’s, bright and torn and frayed, now cloaked in demonic smoke. Almost like it’s holding him together, filling the tears like glue, making him stronger, less vulnerable.

Dean’s hand wraps around Sam’s neck, warm and solid and so familiar.

“There’s no reason we can’t have this. We _deserve_ to have this. Our life was one big fucking shitshow, but now we’ve saved the world. Again. We can do whatever we want. So whaddaya say, Sammy?”

Sam swallows. Yes. The answer was always yes. But he can’t speak. The binding marks pulse with the rabbit quick beat of his heart, and he doesn’t need to.

Dean pulls him in and presses their lips together. Sam tastes copper, dark and rich. Alive. Hungry and desperate, Sam opens up.

“Yeah, Sammy. We can have everything now.”

 

 

 

Sam can feel Dean’s soul, dark and coiling, restless movements. Like it should want to leave but can’t even consider the possibility of being separate from Sam. It's never still, always so alive, and Sam loves it. But when it gets too bad, when the tension rises so high it feels like it’s going to snap, it makes Dean restless too, makes him pick fights for the sake of it, sometimes even with Sam. Those don’t end deadly, but there are other ways Sam wants to spend his time.

He rolls on his side on the king size bed. Dean’s on his back, gloriously and unashamedly naked, absently watching an old horror flick on the crappy motel TV.

“I found a hunt.”

Dean turns his head, lazily raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? What’s it this time? Another vengeful spirit? A poltergeist?” Dean snorts. “Maybe it's one of those wimpy pagan gods. Fucking self-righteous assholes.”

Sam reaches over and curls his hand around Dean's arm, right below his elbow where Sam’s knife would leave deep scars if he didn’t heal immediately.

“No.” Sam grins at him and climbs over to straddle his hips. “Have some faith.” His other hand grips Dean’s, their binding marks blending into one.

Dean’s fingers close around Sam’s and he shifts his hips, lines them up right. “Oh yeah? Werewolves? Vampires? A whole nest? Did you get me something bloody, Sammy?”

Dean’s free hand settles on Sam’s hip and his thumb rubs slow circles into Sam’s skin.

It’s too tender, too loving for what they have now, but sometimes Dean’s happy like this. He’s relaxed and open when there’s a focus for his soul, still bright, still frayed, but now entirely entwined with the dark smoke wrapped around it. And then these little gestures sneak in, assuring Sam that their bond is built on a love as old as they are.

It makes Sam warm and full, happy in a way he’s never been before.

“Even better,” he says and leans in to kiss Dean, dragging his mouth down to Dean’s neck. “I found you your favorite, Dean.”

“My favorite?” Dean’s hand slides up Sam’s back, into his hair.

“Yeah.”

Sam’s mouth closes around skin, teeth digging deep into Dean’s neck until he draws blood. Dean groans and raises his hips, hard and hot against Sam’s ass. It’s messier without the knife, but they don’t mind. It’s raw, intimate like nothing else.

“But Sammy,” Dean says, and his voice is only half mocking, “you’re my favorite.”

He rolls them around, blood running down his neck, and reaches up to coat his fingers in it. When he brings them to Sam's mouth, he watches with black eyes as Sam licks them clean.

He lines himself up, pushes inside, deep and without hesitation. Sam’s body sings with it.

Dean’s eyes turn green again and he leans down to kiss Sam’s bloody mouth. “But I’m gonna love killing some zombies.”

Sam smiles and pulls him in deeper. Apart from the black eyes, Dean really hasn’t changed much this time around. Not in ways Sam minds anyway.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can come find me on tumblr [here](http://ashtraythief.tumblr.com/) and on twitter [here](https://twitter.com/ashtraythief). My ask box is always open.


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